Trees, Walking
L
Leo Yankevich
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In deep, deep autumn when the last leaves lie
beneath the barren limbs of skeletons,
leaning westward in the blast and eye
of a storm, as if walking where the sun's
rays blaze on, in the gospels of the mind,
amid the tattered pages of Saint Mark,
you find yourself no longer fully blind,
following the evangelists, the bark
of their robes still touched by the holy word,
their mortal Teacher not too far ahead,
where winter's followed by a singing bird,
and leaves are resurrected from the dead.
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